An Empty Shell
by Kathryn M.B. Denson
Summary: Heero deals with Relena's death and his own emotionlessness. With a gun pressed against his head, he reviews all of his sins and the way he has lived his life. Rated just to be safe. Oneshot.


An Empty Shell

I do not feel.

Emotions are something only a human has, something a killing machine does not require to get the job done. In fact, if I ever did feel, my emotions would be but an obstacle in the way of my mission.

I do not laugh.

Humor was lost with everything else. I can't even understand why things are funny. What is so comical about an unintelligent remark to a pretty clear and ordinary question? A mix-up of two different words that sound the same? I do not know. I cannot understand it.

I do not smile.

Happiness…that's something I'd like more than anything else. But it disappeared after the accident, and now there is nothing left for me. I have no reason to smile. Besides, it's just a movement of several muscles in your face.

I do not cry.

That doesn't mean I don't feel pain. I feel pain more than most people probably do. But I can't let it out. There's no way to. So it bottled up inside of me, and still bottles up to this day.

From that pain, I did manage to form another emotion: anger. Then that evolved into hatred. That was all I had to use…and perhaps it was suitable. All I could do was kill.

Then I developed a conscience. And I realized all the things I'd done. Pain, anger, and hatred were all still there—but pain more than anything. And regret. So soon I was hating everything. I hated the emotions I still had, hated my life, hated everyone in it, not excluding myself. I had no reason left to live. I was but an empty shell of a human being, emotionless, worthless in a peaceful world without war.

I was seventeen when I realized that and it really sunk in. I drew the gun, prepared to end my life. But then she came…what was SHE doing there! It was late, near midnight; she should have been asleep. She deserved some sleep, too. But she pulled the gun out of my hand, crying, and begged me not to do it. How could she ask me that? She, of all people, should understand that a soldier no longer has any purpose. For some reason, I tossed the gun into the river. I didn't understand. She looked quite relieved. I told her to get some sleep, and I'd be there in the morning.

But when I came for her, she was dead. An assassin had come in the middle of the night and killed her. Pain and anger bubbled up inside of me until I thought I would explode.

I went out in the middle of the night and tracked the assassin down. I killed him quickly, probably painlessly, to avenge her death. But that did no good. I found myself wondering how she would have felt about it. Probably, she'd have been disappointed in me. She'd have expected better out of me. But can't she see that I can do nothing else but kill? And now I had nothing to protect anymore.

I stood by the river where she had refused to let me die before, gun at ready again, but no one will come. No one cares anymore now that she's gone. I had never realized before just how much I had loved her, but now things were too late. I pressed it to my head, prepared to pull the trigger, when her brother came to stop me.

It surprised me to see him there. He and I had never gotten along, and we probably never would. But he was holding a piece of paper in his hand. I replaced the gun at my side, staring at him questioningly. He held the paper out to me, saying, "She wanted you to have this if she were ever to die."

The letter told me how much she loved me—she loved me! What did she love a murderer for! Couldn't she see I wasn't worthy of her love? But as I read on, she said she was sure I found her to be a weakling who depended on others far too often. But I was her first friend, and she hoped I remembered that I'd made a difference in her life. She also hoped she'd made a difference in mine. She begged me not to blame myself for her death, and to live on for her.

I folded the paper up and tucked it into my shirt pocket. I could feel tears running down my face. She'd brought back my ability to cry to me. All of my pain came out, and soon I felt a lot better, though the pain hadn't totally disappeared.

I turned back to her brother, who was still standing there, and thanked him. I really meant it this time somehow. I almost didn't dare to believe. I handed the gun to him and just walked away.

The next day, the feeling was still there. As the week went on, it didn't fade. She'd brought my emotions back, even though it caused her such tremendous sacrifice to do it. I wish I could tell her that myself, but I'm sure she's watching me even now. I'm sure of one thing, however: I'll never love another woman the way I did her.

Today's the first anniversary of her death. As I look to the pale blue sky, I can see there are no clouds. Birds sing cheerfully. I'm standing in a garden, surrounded by trees. In front of me is a grave with a marble angel statue as a tombstone.

I don't hesitate to lay the red rose near the angel's foot—the angel bears an exact likeness to her. Besides being so kind, she had to have been the most beautiful woman in the world when she was alive. But the world, especially in this garden, it seems, is peaceful, just the way she wanted it. She'd have loved to see the world without war she'd played such a large role in creating.

I look at the angel, then to the sky. I know what her role was in my life. And it will always remain that, no matter what.

I feel a breeze blow through my hair as I whisper, "I'll live on for you, Relena."


End file.
